


Morphia's Waltz

by persnickett



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, First Time, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been so long since John woke up to this, he almost forgot who he was sharing his bed with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morphia's Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sexy_right Winter 2010  
> prompt: Sleepy sex! When they are both...

It had been so long since John woke up to this, he almost forgot who he was sharing his bed with. The warm scent of skin, the echo of replying breath thick in the close morning air.

From the way he rolls over in a soft rustle of bedsheets and a sleep-muffled mutter, the kid has forgotten too. One hand coming to rest on John’s ribs, nose tucking in under his chin.

John reaches for his wrist, to free himself and maybe wake the kid, but his limbs are leaden and his intention stalls by the time his fingers close around the warm, steady pulse.

It’s familiar, the velvet graze of hair under his cheek, and John’s eyes slide shut again, unbidden. The casually possessive embrace is familiar too, even if the tight, wiry male frame isn’t.

John’s hand travels up the lean, firm line of Matt’s arm until he reaches the knoll of his shoulder to squeeze vaguely, through the veil of semi-consciousness. It seems too much trouble to open his eyes, but John is sure from the continued stillness and slow, uninterrupted breath that Matt doesn’t wake. He repeats the pressure in an absent sort of kneading, before the motion melts drowsily and gives way to idle stroking; fingers gliding up and back, up and back over supple, youthful skin.

John stills his hand when a subtle stiffening and a quiet grunt tell him the wandering touch has penetrated the layers of Matt’s sleep.

There is a soft, sleepy “hey”, neither greeting nor accusation. Nothing more than acknowledgement, in a fine-grit sandpaper timbre.

“Mmmhmm.” His response is no smoother, gravel and rust in his tone from the long night of disuse.

He waits for Matt to pull away. To turn over, back into the welcoming arms of the cloying, dreamless sleep they share these days, side by side. The purview of the recovering warrior.

Or else, their close contact might have disturbed it enough for Matt to haul himself from the weighty draw of that beckoning siren song to disappear down the hallway until the beloved, earthy aroma of coffee steals silent and tomcat-audacious into John’s bedroom; strong and bitter and black as Matthew’s dark, silken hair.

Matt does neither.

He stretches out alongside him, and John can feel the hot length of Matt laid out against his skin. The thin cotton layer of his shorts does nothing to hide the fact of Matt’s half-aroused condition, as his body stirs itself from the night’s rest. John’s situation is naturally no different, but the feather-light caress of fingers now playing at his collar bone, punctuated with the blunt tease of Matt plucking intermittently at his chest hair, isn’t helping matters.

Only then does it percolate that the hand at Matt’s shoulder is mirroring the action, has fallen back into its easy stroking and exploration.

John inhales sharply through his nose and drags his eyelids open. It’s time. No more of this.

Matt lifts his head as John stirs, but the eye contact is brief. John watches the filmy image of Matt his blurred vision allows him, as Matt licks his lips and his gaze drops blearily to John’s mouth.

The thought is half-formed and fogged, but the concept is a simple one:

“Whoa.”

John’s voice still isn’t fully his own. He clears his throat but it is still coming thick and molasses-slow. “Whoa, kid. We can’t do this.”

“No, we can. We totally can. Just, let me…just try…”

“Try what?” John’s tone is matching Matt’s low, breathy murmur in spite of him.

“Just try not to punch me?”

John can’t help a small chuckle as Matt moves in too close for his unfocused eyes, and lips come shyly over his own. They’re warm, slightly sticky-dry and sour with morning, but that melts away as Matt works.

It shouldn’t be so easy. It shouldn’t feel this right, but the haze of sleep helps and John can let himself drift in this silvery, diaphanous nether-space between dreaming and life while they trade slow, leisurely kisses. Matt slips into it just as easy, sliding their tongues together and nibbling, kitten-like, at John’s lip while he toys lazily with Matt’s hair.

The play of the satiny strands around and around his fingers is hypnotic. John loses time, track, all sense of how long they’ve been doing this, and it’s adding to the cottony, fuzzy feeling in his head. It’s a wonder he’s lucid enough, when Matt’s hand begins to venture down below the sheets, to catch restrainingly at his wrist.

Matt stops the unending kiss, tells John to ‘relax’. That he’s got this, he’ll take care of them. John isn’t sure quite what that means and it is only when he realizes Matt is trying to move away, not get closer, that John does, and releases him.

Matt rises dazedly and pads away across the room, to reappear at John’s side of the bed with a condom packet and a little tube. John thinks vaguely there’s some question hanging there, but he’s too distracted by Matt’s indulgent smile as his hand floats reflexively up, back into the temptation of that bed-mussed hair.

Matt seems to have lost his shorts in his brief absence too, but in the seconds Matt has been out of his bed John has been able to more or less piece together an explanation.

"I think this is the Vicodin talking, kid. We shouldn't..."

"Of course it's the Vicodin. Or else I’d never be able to do _this_."

Matt is climbing onto the bed, bringing one leg over John to put a knee to the mattress on either side of his hips, wincing a little when the left one comes down. The kid is going to hurt himself this way. John opens his mouth to say so, but Matt just repeats his command to relax.

And then Matt is leaning down and kissing him again and John doesn’t even see much of what the kid does with his mysteriously acquired supplies. He only knows the newly familiar stroke of Matt’s tongue, is only aware of the way his body ignites and unfurls, and reaches for Matt. And that minutes later Matt is touching him, guiding him home, as he slowly drops his weight down by increments.

Matt pauses a couple times for breath and to adjust his position – either in discomfort at the breach or to shift some of the weight off his knee. John reaches forward as if to steady him, but once he’s pushing inside Matt’s body, any attempt at thought is wiped out by the tightest, hottest, most all-consuming sensation John’s experienced.

He’s awake now. Or else this is one hell of a dream, but it doesn’t drive the heavy lethargy from his limbs or help him feel anything but helpless thrall, as Matt rocks slowly on top of him. John’s hands rove on automatic pilot over Matt’s skin, his chest, abdomen. They move to brace Matt’s hips and direct his rhythm, and finally to curl around him as he begins to make desperate, fretful whimper-sounds.

By now, the rest is a quick stutter and flow. Cascade. Chain reaction like dominoes toppling.

Matt’s head lolls back and John watches, rapt, looking for the first spill to paint his knuckles or his chest, but the spasms that rack Matt’s body catch him off guard and pull him straight into the deep-end. And then it is all he can do to see to Matt, to stroke him through it, as his own skin draws tingling tight and the all the colour in the world sizzles into brilliant, blazing white.

And it’s finished. No dream, as John stares into Matt’s blinking, slate-pupiled eyes; heart hammering with the truth of what they’ve done, and not the slightest notion of what comes next.

But he remembers, when Matt lays his body down, shattered and boneless on top of him. Remembers what to do – to hold on tight and breathe in the smell of him, stroke over the creamy spell of that skin until the still and the dark begin to creep in at the edges, to take them both under again.

 

 

_____________________

Snick, December 2010


End file.
